Does anyone still believe in power dressing? I mean believe in the way that we
apparently believed in it in the Eighties – as a source of supernatural
potency that would render any shortcomings in the curriculum vitae and
personality department irrelevant. If social documentation is to be
credited, in the Eighties women in their millions signed up to the force of
the double-breasted Armani or, failing Armani, Next suit. Like Palaeolithic
man, gobbling up the brains of clever but dead elders in the hope that some
of the grey cells would stick, power-suited woman hoped that applying the
ancient skills of Savile Row tailoring, or the sneaky tricks of modern
Italian cutting, to her own clothes would bestow on her the same aura of
entitlement that her male counterpart enjoyed. Pinstripes, reveres, crisp
shirts, cuffs and, for the hardcore, cufflinks, vents, breast pockets,
turn-ups and, as ever, what the hell to do in the way of footwear – these
became pleasurable new distractions in the female repertoire of wardrobe
dilemmas.
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